We got back a week ago on January 14th. Or as they say in India the “14th of Jan.” Little things like that always catch my attention. Electricity is “current.” Speed bumps are “speed breakers” and flashlights are “torches.” Pictures me chuckling with delight over these details because I do.

Returning has been…far more difficult than we anticipated. It’s hard to trade palm trees and sunny, blue skies for dreary, rainy January cold. It’s also hard to return to a wee apartment where there is absolutely no space for anything.

Travel, but particularly traveling abroad, gives you such an incredible high. It really is addictive. This world is so big and we are so eager to explore it.

As with all highs, lows invariably follow. We have been and continue to work through those. We haz a sad.

It’s hard to say good-bye to the family, to India, to travel, to vacation. And to return to ….normal: Work. Grocery shopping. Folding clothes. Cat hairballs. Several people at work have commented on how long our trip was. “Wow three weeks!” and “You’ve been gone forever!” I know they mean well; it’s just chit-chat. But Somanna hasn’t seen his family in two years.

Three weeks feels like a weekend. That’s 14 days out of 730 or 0.019%. It’s a blip in the radar.

When we visit India and convene with the family, I am struck by just how far away this family is from one another. And for just how long they’ve been doing this international gig. As someone who grew up in the same town as both sets of grandparents (my grandmother lived next door) and who can still reach her family within a day’s drive, it’s quite literally a foreign concept to me.

India is a humbling experience, on a very real and personal level. I am the racial minority, the one who looks different, sounds different, is different.  I listen in on conversations where I don’t always know the full context, where the places are or who the people are. Heck, sometimes I don’t even understand the language.  I’m the one clueless about the pop culture / sports/ national politics. All that I can take in stride; I’m quite comfortable observing away and I appreciate the perspective the experience offers me. The challenge of navigating, both physically and socially, a new place.

The most humbling aspect, which I wrestle with in a very real way while there, is the ultimate question. Could I return my husband’s sacrifice, and by default his family’s sacrifice?  Could I leave my family, my culture, my food, my ultimate comfort zone and live half way around the world? Could I send a child half way around the world? It would be shameful and dishonest to say that I could answer that question with a resounding “yes.” The truth is…I don’t know. I have doubts and fears as I’m sure Somanna and his family have had and probably occasionally still do. But confronting that question does not make the lesson lost.

I recognize that this is an enormous gift. So to my in laws, sweet Mavi and Mava, and the rest of the family, thank you. To my sweet Somanna, I say thank you. I only hope our visit, albeit brief, in some small, small way honored your gifts.

Because I am so very deeply honored by yours.

You don’t choose your family. They are God’s gift to you, as you are to them.
– Desmond Tutu

Hrmph.  This weather, especially on a Monday, is just bleh.  There’s nothing nice about cold, dark, rainy days on a winter landscape.  You don’t get the feeling that the trees and plants are enjoying the rain as you do during the summer or spring.  The only people that enjoy this weather are hunters, because it makes everything quiet and suppresses odors, but it’s not hunting season.  So who’s happy?  No one.

So here I am wishing for someplace warm, sunny, with lapping waves and soft golden colored beaches and palm trees.  Lots of palm trees.  Oh, I don’t know… someplace like… Kappad beach, 20 km North of Kozhidoke (Calicut), Kerala.

(Looks like somebody has a case of the Mondays)

It’s a pretty sweet view from the office in Somanna’s padres’ casa. I’m currently staring at a sun filled, blue sky framed by palm trees, coffee trees and some of my mother in law’s gorgeous roses. Not to mention there are some super adorable nephews running around being all boy like on the patio and a sweet baby who loves snuggles and kisses more than me, which is saying something.

Did I mention the temperature is a lovely 75-80 degrees?

It’s ok to be jealous. I’m a little jealous of me right now too.

We meant to get a blog post up (or two) before the holidays. But work insanity + holiday shopping + India madness kind of took over our lives. So we’ll see yall in the New Year with what’s hopefully to be our best blogging year yet!

Happy New Year from Incredible India!!!

In the past month, I have:

• sent Somanna an email where I typed “your” instead of “you’re.” He caught it first.
• commented on Facebook and wrote “want” instead of “won’t.” For all to witness.
• said “paining” instead of “hurting.” This I directly blame on Somanna. He always says that in a mocking Indian accent. Poor grammar is no laughing matter.
• Finally, I had to ask Somanna how to spell daughter. Because yes. I couldn’t f#$%ing figure out how to spell it!!

Maybe I should enroll in the Derek Zoolander center for kids who can’t read good.

Is this what middle age feels like?

It blows.

I let my subscription to Southern Living lapse.

[Hangs her head in shame.]

But guess what??

Look what Mr. Postman delivered today!

I’m back in the club y’all!

Lord have mercy, it’s good to see you my friend.

Can I get an Amen from the choir?

Amen!

I *hate* it now.

I am so utterly brain-dead from my not quite two-hour excursion at the mall, yet I feel compelled to purge my soul of the endless frustrations of the quintessential American shopping experience. I am also fighting a serious post-shopping nap, which makes things like “typing” and “forming coherent paragraphs” seem equivalent to running a marathon. Luckily for both of us, on the eight day the Good Lord gave us wine to celebrate. Hallelujah and pass the bottle.

To honor the many men and women who have served or currently serve the good ole U.S.A., I did what most Americans do and headed straight to my nearest shopping mall, saluted the flag on my way into Belk’s, and began to peruse the (hopefully) significantly discounted merchandise. I can think of no higher tribute than serious, focused shoe shopping. Combat boots are seriously ugly enough unless you are A.) in the army or B.) Timbaland.

After about 20 minutes of aimlessly trying to find the section for “young professional women who don’t wish to dress like a teenage slut or their mother,” I finally stumbled upon a section featuring Jessica Simpson’s clothing line.  She’s my age I thought, this must have some possibilities.

It didn’t. I forgot that Jessica Simpson gets paid to dress like a hussy, whereas I get paid to look respectable and must abide by certain dress code rules.  Also, I have to work with this thing called a “budget.”

Budgets are total buzzkills. This is the conversation in my head as I look through a rack of clothing:    “Ugly, ugly, ugly .NO. Maybe, Kind of. Not me, but cute. ____ friend would like this – It’s so her. Absolutely not. If this was in another color, maybe. That’s a possibility. OH CUTE! Finally something cute!  Let’s see what size this is. Ok, yes! they have my size for once! Has good lines, should flatter my body, requires no ironing, now how much is it??…. Oh $%*! OFF! I’m not paying that much!”

Next, I headed straight for the sales / clearance rack and wrestled with combined feelings of bitterness and admiration for all women who can wear “XS” and “Small / Petite” because clearly some tiny woman (cough Norma Rae) went all union on the retailers and now these ladies score mad deals ALL the time! Height is overrated. Color me jealous.

Lo and behold there are two mediums on the rack. They are ugly, but dammit they are a deal. Maybe the strong glow of fluorescent lighting in the dressing room (yea right) coupled with some concentrated squinting will make me see the “potential.” So I try on my “budget friendly” find.

BAD IDEA. It’s cheap for a reason, as in it makes me look cheap. I find it particularly impressive that, despite being blessed with a fairly proportional figure, this article of clothing manages to accentuate every.single.flaw and even make the good stuff look bad. That shirt had some mad self-esteem destroying superpowers.

This prompts a pubescent emotional tailspin that would frighten even the best therapist, and especially bewilder any male companion, as I mentally oscillate between hating myself for not having Jennifer Aniston’s abs (or her trainer/chef/stylist/general lifestyle), while desperately affirming my self-worth and channeling my inner goddess. All within about 30 seconds totally inside my head. Good thing, I’ve perfected the art of appearing normal and self-assured.

“It didn’t flatter my skin tone,” I tell the clerk on the way out.

Next, I tell the clothing section, and Jennifer Aniston, to screw it and head for the shoes. After all, shoes make everyone happy. Or at least they make me incredibly happy.

Shoes are the indiscriminate people pleaser of the fashion world.  Want to channel your inner CEO? How about a pair of these lovelies? Are you secretly a sadomasochist? Show those bad boys & girls who’s in charge.  Got some athletic skillz? Try on a pair of these kicks. Want to tell the world that you are a smart, earthy intellectual from circa 1991 who recycles? This pair of f-ugly’s says it all. Oh yes, shoes are windows to the sole

Normally, the shoe section brings me endless pleasure. But today, it brought me an endless headache. It was crowded. Lots of elderly couples shopping. Guess the retirement community let them out for a field trip or something. There were also lots of mother-daughter combos, with daughters picking up the kind of shoes that I love aesthetically, but feel are a bit too sexual for a high schooler. I also didn’t observe any motherly objections? I thought parenting required resisting such inappropriate requests, not encouraging them?? Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer my hookers to be of legal age.

Feeling a sensory overload coming on, I left the shoe section empty handed footed (sniff, sniff) and headed over to the Clinique counter because I’m a sucker for advertising and this ad has me convinced — absolutely convinced I tell you!– that I need another facial product in my life. I’m sorry – $73 for less than TWO OUNCES of product?!? Apparently, I need a raise too. Or a sugar daddy. Maybe that 15-year-old will loan me her shoes that her mama bought her….

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As I drove home from the mall, wishing I had cleaned my bathroom instead because it would have been more FUN and REWARDING, I thought about my experience and my defunct mood. Then it hit me. I had made a fatal shopping mistake. I went shopping ALONE. This is why women shop in packs. In packs you can share each other’s victories, commiserate on the sad state of retail selection / your lack of a trust fund and boost each other’s body image with the tact and empathy that even the best of husbands cannot recreate.

Friends, I went shopping without my wolf pack. Don’t let my mistake be yours this holiday season. You mean too much to me. Malls are a dangerous place for the anxiety ridden and easily tempted.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some online retail therapy to do from the comfort of my couch. It involves books, bedroom slippers and dutch ovens, all with a glass of wine.

And that is exactly the kind of retail freedom veterans wanted me to have. God Bless America!